Friday Night, Sunday Night
Posted by Steve Bagley
Friday night is like an Arab virgin riding a Pegasus through the Happy Sugar-Time Pinball Arcade, and there are slot machines and flash bulbs and noises of loose triumphant change and blue clouds and swirling galaxies and good-looking young soda-drinkers on roller-skates, really living life the fullest--just grooving off all the tasty soda and cool roller-skate moves, just really stickin it to the Man, the same guy, in fact, who keeps pumping them an infinite supply of soda through feeding tubes, you know, as long as they can pay for it, obviously--and meanwhile there are midgets riding elephants, and magicians and somewhere in the back there are mimes with that look on there faces like "who me?" and then just before you get to the glorious escalator of delicious sugar-time happiness you pass some dude in a gorilla suit, you know, thrown in for good measure.
And that's what Friday night is to me.
Sunday night is like a deathbed vision in old mahogany trim while sitting—face cupped in hands—on the public bench of the mind, floating further and further out like an astronaut on a long lost memory of a shy and dimple-cheeked female on a warm night, throttling at full speed on my trusty bicycle through adolescent sunsets of the orange-sky wild-shit American football nights—and the last pieces of confetti settle in, and ten-thousand crickets are cricking in between my ears—and the moment is a raccoon carcass decaying amidst the flowers and investigating mosquitoes, all decaying themselves, slowly and perfectly in strict accordance with the indestructible patterns of inevitability—Father Time in socks and sandals washing all things away with the garden hose he bought at Home Depot, and existence and non-existence are dancing dangerously close to one another with the heavy sexual tension of a Russian ballet—and each futile rotation of the globe is just another leaning birch tree eroding into the light stream, whipping down the corridors of pine-tree infinitum—
And that’s what Sunday night is to me.
Friday night is like an Arab virgin riding a Pegasus through the Happy Sugar-Time Pinball Arcade, and there are slot machines and flash bulbs and noises of loose triumphant change and blue clouds and swirling galaxies and good-looking young soda-drinkers on roller-skates, really living life the fullest--just grooving off all the tasty soda and cool roller-skate moves, just really stickin it to the Man, the same guy, in fact, who keeps pumping them an infinite supply of soda through feeding tubes, you know, as long as they can pay for it, obviously--and meanwhile there are midgets riding elephants, and magicians and somewhere in the back there are mimes with that look on there faces like "who me?" and then just before you get to the glorious escalator of delicious sugar-time happiness you pass some dude in a gorilla suit, you know, thrown in for good measure.
And that's what Friday night is to me.
Sunday night is like a deathbed vision in old mahogany trim while sitting—face cupped in hands—on the public bench of the mind, floating further and further out like an astronaut on a long lost memory of a shy and dimple-cheeked female on a warm night, throttling at full speed on my trusty bicycle through adolescent sunsets of the orange-sky wild-shit American football nights—and the last pieces of confetti settle in, and ten-thousand crickets are cricking in between my ears—and the moment is a raccoon carcass decaying amidst the flowers and investigating mosquitoes, all decaying themselves, slowly and perfectly in strict accordance with the indestructible patterns of inevitability—Father Time in socks and sandals washing all things away with the garden hose he bought at Home Depot, and existence and non-existence are dancing dangerously close to one another with the heavy sexual tension of a Russian ballet—and each futile rotation of the globe is just another leaning birch tree eroding into the light stream, whipping down the corridors of pine-tree infinitum—
And that’s what Sunday night is to me.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Monday, May 08, 2006.
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